The fifth year of Emperor Bidatsu’s reign, Kisaragi. Izumo, the Kandō Plain.
Nagi was watching the night sky.
Fifteen years old. Her sun-darkened skin was steeped in the smells of salt and mud. Her hair was tied up with a hemp cord, and the hem of her coarse hemp robe, which reached to her knees, was stained with mud as she sat at the edge of the embankment.
The moon rose. It cleared the ridgeline of the mountains to the east and slowly climbed toward the zenith. Beyond it, two bright stars stood side by side. The Brother Stars. For hundreds of years, the Naja People had watched them to determine when it was time to sow.
The night the moon rose toward the Brother Stars. That was the signal.
“...Yeah.”
Nagi nodded. She wasn’t speaking to anyone. She was speaking to the sky.
Starting tomorrow, they would begin raising the rice seedlings.
The Naja Clan. A people descended from the serpent god Naga.
They had departed from the Caspian Sea, crossed the mountains of Gandhara, traveled south down the Ganges River, crossed the Indochinese peninsula, ridden the Black Current north, arrived on the shores of Hyūga, and from there entered Izumo.
A people of the sea. They possessed the skill to cross the open ocean by reading the stars, the tides, and the wind. They excelled at astronomy, marked the calendar, and knew the turning of the seasons more precisely than anyone.
They had also brought wet-rice cultivation to this land.
A plain spread between the mountains and sea of Izumo. In the lowlands nourished by the waters of the Kandō, the Naja People had cleared their first rice paddies. A settlement of around one hundred fifty people lined the riverbank with their homes.
This year’s rice cultivation was special to Nagi. It was the year she had been entrusted with leading the raising of the seedlings for the first time. From selecting the seed rice to planting the paddies, Nagi would oversee it all. At fifteen, this was her first season as the one who would inherit the Naja People’s rice-growing tradition.
The next morning. Before the settlement had begun to stir, Nagi was already by the river.
She drew water, lit the hearth, and measured out the salt. She set three barrels in a row and filled them with well water.
Before long, the villagers began to gather. Men, women, and children alike. To the Naja People, the first day of raising the seedlings was a festival.
At the center of the square stood a stone shrine. Naja. An old stone statue carved in the shape of a snake. It was said not to have been brought from the continent, but to have been carved by the first elder after they arrived in Izumo. The snake’s body was coiled three times, and above it rose a head with a rice stalk clenched in its jaws.
Nagi stood before the shrine.
This year, Nagi would offer the prayer. It was her first time. She had practiced again and again since morning so her voice would not tremble.
“Naja, please grant us water again this year. Please grant us sunlight again this year. May these seeds sprout, bow with grain, and fill the bellies of our people.”
A short prayer. The Naja People’s prayers were always short. At sea, there was no time to offer a long prayer. Before a storm arrived, their words had to reach the gods in a single breath.
When the prayer ended, the children raised a cheer. The women handed out rice balls and dried fish, while the men passed around sake. Some played flutes, some beat drums, and some began to dance. It was a small festival. It was not as extravagant as the harvest festival, but it held the joy of sowing the seeds.
Nagi stepped slightly away from the festival circle and returned to the barrels.
Salt-water seed selection. They filled the barrels with salt water and put in the seed rice. The heavy grains that sank were good seeds. The floating grains were discarded. Only seeds packed full and brimming with strength were selected.
Nagi dissolved the salt in the water and stirred it. She tested the concentration with her tongue. The tongue of a sea people knew the salt’s strength precisely.
She took a handful of seed rice and put it into the water. The grains scattered, gradually separating into those that sank and those that floated.
Nagi picked up one of the grains that had sunk and split it with her fingernail. She examined the germ inside. It was white, firm, and glossy.
“Good.”
This year’s seed was excellent.
Nagi continued sorting in silence. She reached into the barrel, scooped up the grains that had sunk, and transferred them to a bamboo basket. It was simple work, but she could not rush. She had to wait for the water to give its answer, one grain at a time.
The Naja People knew how to wait. At sea, they waited for the wind, waited for the tide, waited for the stars to reach the proper position. Rice cultivation, too, was a chain of waiting.
While the festival continued around her, Nagi’s younger sister came running over.
Nana. Thirteen. Smaller than her sister, with a louder voice.
“Sis, the Tengu are here.”
Nagi lifted her hands from the barrel. Water dripped from her elbows.
“The Tengu?”
“Yeah. Someone we know. They say they’re messengers from the Imibe.”
Nagi wiped her hands and returned to the square.
Two Tengu stood at the edge of the festival circle. They wore woven hawk-feather garb. Their faces were familiar. Once or twice a year, messengers from the Imibe came to Naja Village to trade medicinal herbs or bring news from the continent.
An elder was speaking with the Tengu. It was Nagi’s father. Deep wrinkles marked his sun-darkened face. He was a man who knew both the sea and the rice paddies.
When Nagi approached, her father turned around.
“Nagi. An official summons.”
He handed her a wooden tablet.
“Bring the princesses of the Six Kowakuni Clans to Tachibana Palace of Asuka.”
Nagi read it aloud, then fell silent.
The princesses of the six clans. Asuka.
Nagi turned to look at the barrels. The seed rice soaked in salt water was sinking quietly.
“...Now?”
“Now.”
“We’re in the middle of raising the seedlings.”
“I know.”
Nagi bit her lip.
This year’s rice crop was Nagi’s crop. Her season, entrusted to her for the first time. She was supposed to select the seed rice, prepare the seedling beds, draw water into the paddies, and plant the seedlings. She was supposed to do all of it with her own hands.
She knew nothing about Asuka. She had no interest in the Capital of the Heavenly Descendants. The ripening of this year’s rice mattered many times more to her.
But when she looked into her father’s eyes, she understood. This was not something she could refuse.
Nagi let out a long breath.
“Nana.”
She called her sister.
Nana came running over.
“You memorized the salt-water concentration by taste, right?”
“Yeah.”
“How deep should the water be in the seedling bed?”
“To the second knuckle.”
“How far apart do we plant the rice?”
“One shaku and two sun. You always say so, Sis.”
Nagi placed a hand on her sister’s head.
“This year, you’ll do it.”
Nana’s eyes widened.
“Me?”
“You can do it.”
Nana started to say something, then closed her mouth. She nodded firmly. The same tenacity as her sister had appeared on her thirteen-year-old face.
Nagi returned to the barrel and put the last handful of seed rice into the water. She carefully scooped up the grains that sank and transferred them to the basket.
“That’s all the seed. The rest is up to you.”
Nana accepted the basket with both hands.
That night. Nagi was packing in her room.
The Eight-Forked Naja Hatchet. A hatchet connected to a chain. When swung, the chain extended, and the hatchet’s weight altered its trajectory. It was a weapon meant for use at sea. It could connect ships, cut through things, and pull them closer. It was a tool of maritime combat, honed by the Naja People over the course of their journeys across the open ocean.
Nagi oiled each link of the chain. It could not be allowed to rust. The weapons of a sea people were always prepared for the salt tide.
She placed a small jar in the corner of her pack. Miso. Miso Nagi had made herself. She didn’t know what she would have to eat during the journey. But with miso, she could make do with almost any ingredient.
Nagi liked to cook. The sea people had to survive long voyages on limited provisions. Dried fish, grain, and salt. With only that, they remained at sea for days and weeks at a time. So they improvised. Even with the same ingredients, changing how they were cut, how they were cooked, and how they were combined could create a different flavor.
Nagi’s original dishes sometimes turned out strange. Rice cakes with dried fish ground into powder and kneaded into the grain. A broth of seaweed and nuts dressed with miso. Whoever ate them would tilt their head, take another bite, tilt their head again, and before they knew it, they had eaten the whole thing.
Nagi closed her pack and looked outside the window.
The Kandō Plain lay drowned in moonlight. The land that was meant to become rice paddies stretched out as black earth. It was no longer Nagi who would draw water over that soil and plant the seedlings.
“...Nana will be fine.”
She said it aloud, as if trying to convince herself.
A faint, Jōmon-style spiral pattern remained on her arm. A magical design she had painted during last year’s festival. Before a battle, the Naja People painted their entire bodies with flowing-water and spiral patterns, wrapping themselves in the power of water. The wood element. Like a tree that drew up water, spread its roots, and did not break even in a storm.
She did not know what awaited her in Asuka. But Nagi was a woman of the sea. She was not afraid to venture onto an unknown sea.
The only thing she feared was that this year’s rice would fail to ripen.
Nagi lay down. She placed the Eight-Forked Naja Hatchet beside her pillow, moved the jar of miso to the top of her pack, and closed her eyes.
Sleep came slowly. The sleep of a sea people. Sleep that listened to the sound of waves and woke at the turning of the tide.